Two more days and she’s mine.
Then I’m going to take great pleasure in peeling away all of her resistance. She’s right; I do want to expose her on my canvas, body and soul. I want her to surrender everything to me, to my painting.
Before I consider this debt with Hathaway settled, I want to leave no doubt in his mind, Melanie’s, or anyone else’s that she belongs fully and completely to me.
I will be satisfied with nothing less.
Knowing the resulting piece of art will make headlines in Manhattan and the rest world is just icing on a cake I’ve been waiting years to taste.
“I guess I shouldn’t argue with inspiration,” Nate says after a moment, shaking his head. “Whatever gets you behind your canvas again can’t be a bad thing. No offense, my friend, but you’re a real prick when you’re not painting.”
“None taken.”
I know damn well what I’m like when I’m unable to create. Boredom isn’t a good look for me. Then again, neither is festering contempt.
Ever since I learned who Daniel Hathaway is, I’ve been consumed with little else.
In two more days, I will begin showing him who I am.
In the end, I want him to know I’ve taken everything that matters to him.
I want him to feel the justified totality of my revenge.
And I want him to understand with cold certainty that every debt—no matter how old or how deeply buried—eventually demands payback.
8
MELANIE
I report to Jared Rush’s Lenox Hill mansion on Thursday at precisely eight A.M.
I’ve actually been in the city for about an hour already, trying to kill time, but I’ll be damned if I want him to think I’m anxious. I am anxious, though. I’m nervous as hell.
My palms are damp, my heart racing, as I wait alone in the luxurious sitting room just off the foyer while one of Jared Rush’s house staff alerts him that I’ve arrived.
For the past thirty-six hours, I’ve been trying to get accustomed to the idea that I’ve agreed to take my clothes off for a man I know nothing about.
The internet helped fill in some of the blanks. Not that I feel any better about my arrangement with Rush after reading dozens of photo articles about his most acclaimed and controversial paintings, or scouring countless online rags for paparazzi photos of him. And I found plenty of those. Image after image of him at events all over the world—complete with an accumulation of enough gorgeous female companions to circle the globe.
The knowledge of his staggering net worth came as a shock, too.
While his art incites multi-million-dollar bidding wars at the most prestigious auction houses, Jared Rush’s savvy investments in real estate and entertainment ventures in recent years are estimated to have earned him close to half a billion dollars.
I’d assumed he was rich, but holy shit.
“Ms. Laurent?”
I lift my head at the familiar sound of Gibson’s voice. “Good morning,” I say, greeting the polite older gentleman as if I’m here on a social call.
His answering smile is kind, perhaps even a little sympathetic. He must know the reason I’ve come has nothing to do with a casual visit.
Right. Of course, he knows. He was there in the corridor when I practically broke down outside Rush’s study the other night.
I’m sure by now the entire household staff knows about Daniel’s humiliating loss in the game room and my contractual obligation to help him fix it.
Gibson gently clears his throat. “If you’re ready, Ms. Laurent, Mr. Rush has asked me to show you upstairs now.”
Am I ready? I’m not sure I ever will be.
I get up from the silk-upholstered settee, my long hair swishing against my back as I smooth my hands over the skirt of my sleeveless, pale blue cotton wrap dress. I haven’t worn the summery frock since last year at Katie’s kindergarten class graduation party at the school.
This morning as I was digging through my closet, searching for something appropriate to wear, the unfussy dress seemed the best of my limited options. Especially considering I was only going to be required to take it off, anyway.
God, I still can’t believe I’ve agreed to this.
I should turn on the soles of my ballerina flats and run all the way back to Queens before it’s too late.
I should tear up my agreement with Jared Rush, apologize to Daniel for abandoning him to the consequences of his own recklessness, then go back to living my life. Back to working my two extra jobs to keep a roof over Mom and Katie’s heads while I’m barely nibbling at the edges of my mounting student loans.
That’s what I should do.
Instead, I dutifully follow Gibson through the foyer to whatever awaits me upstairs.
He leads me into the same elevator Daniel and I rode in with him two nights ago. Instead of stopping on the second floor as we did then, today we ride all the way to the top of the five-story residence.
There is no long, broad corridor on this floor as we step out of the elevator car. This floor is even more private; a vast, beautifully appointed living space. Gleaming white marble floors. Soaring walls embellished with carved millwork and crown moldings. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking some of the most costly, historic real estate in Manhattan.
Gibson leads me through the heart of the stunning residence, pausing outside a pair of French doors that are opened into a spacious living room and solar. Turning to me, he gives me a nod of permission to enter.
I glance inside, hesitant. I don’t see Rush, but I can feel him. That dark, electrical charge that traveled through me when I stood before him in his study two nights ago is back now, waking every nerve ending in my body.
Sumptuous furnishings in butter-soft brown leather and creamy fabrics accented in masculine earthtones are arranged in a conversation-friendly cluster in front of an entire wall of bookcases lined with what I guess to be hundreds upon hundreds of
